The Hour Before Dawn

by Penelope Wilcock

  They came to Mass, it was true, and blessed themselves with holy water when they came into the church. Eyes watched them closely to see if they fell twitching and shrieking or if steam hissed out of their ears as the holiness tormented an occult spirit that lodged like a parasite hooked in their souls, but that had never happened—yet.

  The year before Katelin’s lad had gone away “to the monastery”, an itinerant healer had been that way—an infidel and a foreigner who didn’t know the words of the Mass and couldn’t rehearse the Pater Noster, nor yet the Ave Maria—worse than a heretic. And he had lodged with Katelin and spent time in conversation with the boy, brought him alongside him into the homes of the sick, showed him all manner of tricks and wonders. It was after that the lad had gone away; so maybe it was to no monastery after all. Maybe he was a witch himself, for he had learned to read, and certainly he hadn’t learned that from Father Aelfric, who knew his letters but sometimes got numbers upside down. But that was many years ago now. In that time the witch’s power would have steadily increased. And in those days no one had thought twice about a wisewoman or about women living alone. Now folk had rumbled their rebellion, the unsubmissiveness of their souls.

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” so says the Holy Bible, and His Holiness, God’s Vicar in Rome, had only the year before authorized the Inquisition to hunt down sorcerers. The links were starting to be made between village wisewomen and sorcery and heresy. The fires that would rage across Europe for centuries were beginning to be kindled now. It was word of this that fanned the flames of whispering in the village, especially after Elspeth Kempe said she knew for sure that Katelin was a heretic, and if Katelin, then surely Madeleine too. Elspeth swore Katelin had averred that a soul could be saved by Christ alone, without the holy sacrament or the blessing of the priest, but only by simple faith and the love of God in the heart. She said the spirit was free like a bird and belonged to no hierarchy. She said every institution was a construct of man’s devising. She said the church could never make a net fine enough to snare the Holy Spirit; it had no monopoly on holiness. Katelin said altogether too much, and she had no doubt poisoned her daughter, Madeleine, with the sulfur of her folly.

  And one night when a child had died mysteriously and a man had caught a pox he couldn’t account for, it became convenient to find somebody to blame. The wisewomen should be confronted and their wicked arts brought to an end; the devil that stood proud on the manure heap should be gelded.

  It was not meant to become the big thing that it did. The men had been drinking and were egged on by the ill will of spiteful women. The man with the pox had a reason to divert the attention of his wife. They took a couple of torches to light the way along the lane, and eight of them climbed the track that led up the hill to Katelin’s cottage, filling the night with loud laughter and lewd jests about Katelin’s goat and about women who rode on broomsticks.

  When they got to the cottage, they went for the goat first, in a drunken, unfocused way, but he made a commotion and knocked them flying, and then someone picked up a stone and threw it at the house, shouting, “Witch! Come out, witch!” Madeleine had been sitting beside the fire with her mother, the two of them dressed in their nightgowns and shawls, combing their hair (one dark head, one silver) and chatting as the wing of night folded them in. She came out to see what was happening when the stone hit her door with a thud, and she called the intruders every name imaginable when she saw who was there. While she stood raging at them someone had the idea of searching the house for books that might speak against the teaching of the church. Katelin, also in the doorway now, protested. A tussle followed, one of the men shoved Katelin so roughly into the house that she lost her balance and fell, and the crowd, all pushing to get in, set fire to the thatch with their torches by accident.

  Madeleine took off her shawl to try and smother the flames before they got out of control as three of the men stumbled into the cottage and five of them staggered around her garden, trampling the herbs and catcalling and whooping incoherently. She shouted at them to get off their land and leave them in peace and ran after them as they went for the billy goat again. This time one of them grabbed her and held her fast, while one of the others caught the goat by its horns, and a third made a cruel mess of a bloody castration. They had Madeleine now, and the violence and excitement aroused them. “This what you like, witch?” one of them taunted her, groping at her body as his friend held her fast. The more she struggled and swore at them, the more it inflamed them. One of them ripped her nightgown, laughing, and she spat at him and aimed a kick.

  Inside the house three men ransacked the clothes chest and the cupboard, then tore down the bundles of drying herbs from the rafters. Katelin had staggered to her feet and grabbed the sleeve of one of her intruders, but he lashed out at her in fury, knocking her to the floor, where she lay still. Finding a leather bottle of good wine, the men in the cottage passed it round, drinking by turns until it was empty.

  Outside, the fire had taken hold in the thatch. “Take a look at this, witch! What d’you think of what’s coming to you now, witch?” the men jibed in the garden. They flung Madeleine to the ground and held her down. She fought like a wild animal, but they were too many for her. When she would not lie still, they banged her head on the ground until she did. When they had finished with her, for good measure they cut the goat’s throat. The cottage was ablaze by now, and the men who had rummaged through its contents rolled out disappointed to find nothing but the pots and cooking vessels of an ordinary house: no books of spells, no charms or amulets, nothing of significance but the simple wooden cross that hung on the wall. As the lust of power and sex and self-righteousness began to leave them, drunk though they were, the men felt it better to get away from the place. They left Madeleine unconscious and bleeding in the garden by the slaughtered body of the goat. When she came to toward morning, the cottage, still burning, was almost gone, and Katelin was dead. The vegetable garden was trampled and the door to the goat shed banging in the wind. Her little herd was gone.

  Dazed and half-naked in the torn, bloody filth of her nightgown, afraid to go into the village for help, afraid to stay where she was in case they came for her again, afraid to be seen in her shame, Madeleine hid in the woods until dusk came again, when she made her way to the house of Poor Clares that had been built down by the river. They took her in, these good women, and asked if she had any family. “Only my brother, Adam,” she said, “whose name in religion is John; he is the abbot at St Alcuin’s high up on the edge of the moors.”

  So the sisters sent word to John. Their Mother Abbess felt a profound sense of sympathy, not only because of the sickening and distressing nature of the tragedy, but because she knew John Hazell had been made abbot no earlier than the middle of Lent. It was now still only two weeks into Eastertide. She prayed for him. There was only so much that could hit one man at once and leave him still standing.

  Father William stood talking with Brother Michael in the infirmary’s small dispensary.

  “What sphagnum moss we need, we usually gather ourselves,” Michael was saying. “Also each time any of the sheep are slaughtered, Brother Stephen usually keeps back three skins for us. We use them for anyone who can’t get out of bed; a sheepskin is the best thing against pressure sores and wondrous comfortable to rest a painful body on. We badly need some more oil; almond is what we generally use, but any will do. Sometimes when we’ve run out, I’ve had to use poultry grease, but even with the aromatics in, that still smells foul. We are running low on aromatic oils too, and, as ever, we can do with any linen, however small a piece. We’re as careful as we can be, but we still have to throw pads and bandages away sometimes—or burn them if we think there is any contagion. We do our best, Father; truly we are never wasteful, but I think this is going to come up costing very dear, isn’t it? We’ll be grateful for whatever can be afforded.”

  William considered the list he had made.

  “If you asked for
silk sheets and silver chamber pots, the price would be as nothing compared with the compassion and kindness and sheer hard slog there is in this infirmary,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do—consulting with Brother Ambrose, of course.” Though Father William had a complete grasp of every facet of the abbey’s domestic economy, he held firmly in mind that he was newly received and merely the cellarer’s assistant; he took care to observe the appropriate formalities.

  They both looked up in surprise as Brother Thomas, out of breath, appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Michael with one look at Tom’s face.

  “It’s Father John.” Tom shook his head and stopped to catch his breath. Alarmed, Brother Michael slid from the tall stool on which he had been sitting by the dispensary workbench, ready to answer the need, but Tom raised a hand to delay him. William stood, silently alert, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “No, it’s not like that—phew—just a minute, I came at a run.” His brothers waited, and a few seconds later Tom continued. “Sorry—that’s better. There came a messenger, just after the midday meal, with news from the monastery of Poor Clares near the village where Father John’s family lives. His mother and sister—I don’t think you’ve met them, William, but neither one of them is your run-of-the-mill housewife. They can both read and keep accounts, they’re both wise with herbs and healing and midwifery. Anyway it would seem there have been murmurs—these accusations are not true—suggesting witchcraft and heresy. The sisters say his mother has been put to death and his sister violated. Their home was burned and all they had destroyed. Madeleine has taken refuge with the sisters.”

  “Oh, Jesu mercy!” said Michael. William said nothing at all but stood very, very still, his eyes fixed on Brother Tom.

  “Who is with Brother John?” asked Michael next.

  “Father John,” Tom corrected automatically. “He is alone. That was his wish. I ran straight to him. He sent Martin away when he heard the news. I went to him, but he asked me to go away too.”

  “Hmm. I understand. God bless him, he probably needs a bit of space. Brother—sorry, Father—John is a healer, but he’s not… well, he needs solitude as much as company. Anyhow, they will be ringing the bell for None shortly, I imagine. Will you go, Tom, and if John doesn’t appear in chapel, explain to Father Chad and ask him to stand in? I’ll mix him up some physic here to help with the shock, and we can be on hand for when the companionship of others feels more welcome.”

  While Michael was speaking, William quietly left the room.

  He walked rapidly across to the cloister buildings through the bright May sunshine and, when he reached the abbot’s house, knocked gently on the door. No reply came from within. William paused, then lifted the latch quite noiselessly and let himself in with no sound at all.

  John still sat exactly where Brother Tom had found him and left him, on the stool in the middle of the room. William did not go near but sat down on the floor with his back against the wall next to the door. He did not speak; he barely even breathed; he bent his head and did not look at John. He just waited.

  Some fifteen minutes later, the bell for None began to sound, but John did not stir.

  In the chapel, amid the whisper of robes and sandals of the community flowing in like a purposeful river of prayer, Brother Tom slipped unobtrusively to Father Chad’s side as he came in through the door.

  “Father, a word.” Tom spoke in an undertone, so he could just be heard but no more. “Father John has had bad news. His mother has died, and his sister has been hurt in an attack on their home. I think he may not come for prayers.”

  “How long have you known this?” demanded Father Chad. Tom thought he sounded indignant, even in a whisper.

  “Hardly any time. The message came this afternoon.”

  “Why did you not send for me at once?” Father Chad asked, affronted. “I must go to him immediately!”

  “No!” Brother Tom laid a detaining hand on his arm. “He wants no one, Father. He asked to be left alone. He sent me away.” He looked at Chad beseechingly. “Don’t trouble him. Look after the office for him. Please.”

  Father Chad nodded. “Very well. That seems wise.” He glanced around the chapel. By now the brothers were all seated. They knew, as brothers in community always know, even those few whom the word flying around the abbey had still not reached, that something was badly amiss.

  “Where’s William de Bulmer?” whispered Father Chad suspiciously.

  Tom shook his head. “I have no idea. Were they seeing tradesmen this afternoon perhaps?”

  “Yes, but Brother Ambrose is here!”

  Certainly it was hard to explain the cellarer’s assistant’s absence if their cellarer was free to come to chapel. Tom could think of no further diplomatic ruses for throwing their prior off the scent. “Oh, well, I just don’t know,” he mumbled.

  Father Chad looked uneasy. “Take your seat, brother,” he instructed. “I’ll go along and comfort Father John as soon as the office is sung.”

  He strode purposefully to the abbot’s stall as Tom slipped into his. “Will he not see you?” whispered Theodore to Tom.

  “No one,” he replied under his breath. “He looks just dreadful.”

  Father Chad gave the invitation, “Dominus vobiscum,” and the community gathered their various thoughts into common prayer.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the afternoon office having ended, footsteps approached the abbot’s door, and somebody knocked with determination. William raised his head and looked for his abbot’s reaction. John moved as if searching for escape, and the expression on his face told William he could not yet bear the intrusion of human company.

  “Go into your chamber,” said William, peremptory and very low.

  John sighed. He had been aware of William’s presence, but he did not look in his direction. The knock at the door came again, and this time whoever stood outside put his hand to the latch. At that, with the swiftness of a hunted animal, John went through to his chamber and shut the door. The sound of this was masked by the rattle of the iron latch lifting and falling on the outer door. When it opened, William was already on his feet, poised to answer. With a movement that looked like casual greeting, he put his right hand on the latch and lifted his left to the door frame, making it impossible to pass.

  “Father Chad,” he said, “thank goodness you’ve come!”

  “I came as soon as I was alerted to the dreadful news,” said the prior. “I don’t know why I was not told earlier—did you know before? You must have or you would not be here!”

  “I was not told, Father,” said William meekly. “I happened to be standing there when the message came and thought to see if I could be of assistance. Brother Martin naturally came to tell Father John first, and of course Brother Thomas as his esquire would be on hand. No doubt Brother Martin was still searching for you when the bell began ringing for None, and he expected to see you in chapel.”

  Father Chad nodded, somewhat mollified by this version of events.

  “I stood in for Father John in chapel,” he said confidingly. “I came straight from there to offer my comfort and condolences. Is he not here?”

  William bowed slightly in affirmation and to convey a subtle impression of respect and deference. “He retired into his chamber, Father Prior, and will see nobody—nobody at all, not even those closest to him like yourself. The bad news has hit him hard, and he is not yet ready for expressions of goodwill.”

  “I wonder if I should come in and wait…” Father Chad mused. But William stood firm. “My lord prior,” he said, “you will of course know better than I what is wisest and best, but may I suggest it could be prudent to verify with the guest house, the kitchen, and Brother Thomas if Father had any hospitality planned for tonight? If he is expecting visitors to eat with him, you might make a change in the arrangements and dine with them yourself in the guest house—so they will still feel they have had the opportunity to meet with a senior bro
ther of real importance. If on inquiry you find he is expecting no visitors, you might come back and see if he is ready to receive you after Vespers? Either way I think he will be relying on you to lead Vespers for him.”

  “Good plan!” Father Chad seemed pleased with this proposal and the way it had been put to him. “Thank you, Father William, for your good sense. May I ask you to continue at your post here until I or someone else comes to relieve you?”

  “I am glad to do as you ask, Father,” murmured William submissively. As Father Chad turned away and headed purposefully along the cloister, William closed the door again and sat down on the floor just beside it, as before.

  Another half hour passed, and then the door to the inner chamber opened again. John stood in the doorway.

  “Thank you,” he said tonelessly. “Thank you.”

  He walked into his room, wandering restlessly from the doorway to the chair by the fire, then to his worktable, then came to rest, just standing. He looked down at the table, tracing his fingertips on its edge.

  “What now?” he asked in the same flat voice. “What on earth should I do now?”

  “You should make arrangements to visit your sister and bury your mother, my lord,” replied William quietly.

  John stared at him, dazed. “Make arrangements? I don’t think I can organize to put one foot in front of the other.” He shook his head, uncertain. He looked bewildered and lost. “This is awful. I’ve always been incisive, known what to do… William—will you help me; if I go there, will you come with me?”

  William got to his feet slowly, the time this took giving him a small space to consider the request. He had no wish to antagonize Father Chad by usurping any role he might feel to be his due as St Alcuin’s prior; and even less did he wish to make Brother Thomas, the abbot’s esquire, feel in any way slighted. Harder to admit to himself was his fear of leaving the safe boundary of St Alcuin’s walled enclosure. It was too little time since he’d been a hunted man, seeking refuge from the hatred and vengeance of his enemies. He was afraid of being recognized, afraid to face being reviled, afraid to think of the attack on Madeleine and to wonder what rough justice could still threaten him in the world outside the sturdy protection of these walls. All this passed through his mind in a flash as he moved from sitting to standing, feeling profoundly ashamed of himself that when it came to it and John actually asked him to do something in return for all his kindness, William thought he was probably going to say no. He wished his abbot had asked him to do almost anything else, anything that didn’t involve leaving the abbey.